


Irie Girl

by Transom



Category: Small Axe
Genre: Comfort, F/F, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:49:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28227183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transom/pseuds/Transom
Summary: After the dance, and after.
Relationships: Cynthia/Grace
Kudos: 3





	Irie Girl

**Author's Note:**

> *Attention*
> 
> Deals with the aftermath of a sexual assault, which is referenced only. Please read with caution.

Her bed was a safe place. It was softness, warmth. It was Grace, her Grace, hardly holding her at all, only their fingers twined together. It was a kiss, simple like a weak heart beat. 

It was only later that she cried. Now her bed was a sea of storms, clutching at sheets to stay afloat. Her Grace was here for this, murmuring low nothings, her small hand a heavy feather on her back. 

She had prints on her body. She had smells that weren’t hers, that only she could still smell. She felt suddenly so old. Was that blues dance her seventeenth birthday, or her seventieth? How many days had passed since then? How many times had her Grace knocked upon her door, curled around her and told her silly jokes, pressed her smile into her neck? 

Cynthia made herself wear red again, at least a little a time. Earrings, a bracelet, a ribbon in her hair. Grace noticed and smiled, brushed back her hair from her face and kissed her cheek, lovey and sweet. Cynthia tucked her shoulder up and giggled, ticklish. She started to tell her off, but stopped, eyes going wide. 

Grace had never meant to hurt her. Her Grace had soft hands, lifting hands. But there were heavy hand-prints on her still, big and deep. She had been shaped, dented, deflated. She was looking around her always now, waiting for the time it would happen again and no one could save her. She was always making plans she knew she would never go through with, what to say, what to do. But next time, the hands would be heavy again, maybe heavier. She just knew her cries would soak into the dirt next time. 

Her bed was dripping with tears. Her nails had left runs in the sheets. Her red dress bled in the back of her closet. Her Grace had her hand in her hair, gently stroking it from her temple to her neck. She was learning how to breathe, how to be a girl, who was named Cynthia, who was irie, _irie, you’re irie, girl_. Grace was teaching her, whispering her name until she would fall asleep behind her, her whole soft arm wrapped around her.

**Author's Note:**

> Couldn't get these two out of my head. Would love a movie about them, honestly.


End file.
